


Men of Ardour

by ChocolateCarnival



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Adult Content, Canon Divergence, Codependency, Dark Eroticism, Dark Harry, Injured Harry, M/M, Non TGC Complaint, Possessive Behavior, Psychological, Rimming, elements of BDSM, morally ambiguous - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-27
Updated: 2018-01-27
Packaged: 2019-03-09 22:57:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13491561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChocolateCarnival/pseuds/ChocolateCarnival
Summary: ~“Just for you, I shall burn the world to ash.”~It's been a year since Galahad fell at the hands of Valentine, permanently
    and psychologically debilitated by the confrontation. He attaches himself
    to his darling boy as a means of escape, just as much as the younger man
    attaches himself to the older man in search of constant reassurance. Bound
    eternally, broken and twisted; their love burns sinfully hot and cold at
    the same time. Even if it had the makings of tipping power balances within
    Kingsman Headquarters.Either way, neither Eggsy nor Harry is willing to give the other up for
    their own safety. They'd rather incinerate the world at their feet.





	Men of Ardour

**Author's Note:**

> Well, this is what happens when I cannot contain my own inspiration. I wanted to personally thank ViolyntFemme for inspiring this piece, I have always wanted to delve into the much darker aspects of Kingsman characters and her fic:  
> "you've become all that i've lost" has paved the way for me to explore darker and more complex settings than my usual pieces. 
> 
> Anyways, this is a multi-chapter fic for now. I was planning on a one-shot but it seems too little to capture the flow of the characters and setting. I'm not planning to keep it too long though, probably around seven to ten chapters. But hopefully it won't interfere with my other running fics too much. Also, I'm still toying with the idea of making this a Hart Twin fic...have't decided yet on that one. 
> 
> Please enjoy.

[](http://tinypic.com?ref=2l93z2o)

**Prologue: With Snow and Ash** ****

“Target one-thousand-three-hundred-and-seventy-four metres north-north-west, darling. Adjust twelve degrees to your left.” 

  
“Yes, Harry.” Eggsy breathed quietly in acknowledgement, an assured forefinger and thumb instinctively attuning the crosshairs of his scope as he shivered absentmindedly at the icy cold wind crawling beneath finely pressed black cashmere. The heavy, thigh-length winter coat was doing little to shield his body from the raging blizzard outside. Butter-soft leather curling an expert finger around a Kingsman-issue rifle trigger. The touch sensitive gloves, engineered to trap the warmth seeping from his extremities; continuously read out the fluctuating isotopes of his temperature and heartrate four-hundred miles away in London. 

  
“Galahad.” Came the proprietary warning, containing just enough disapproval in the older man’s tone for Eggsy to shift repentantly in place. “Mind protocol, we’re on open comm’s.” 

  
“Apologies, Guinevere.” He breathed quietly, appropriately chastened by the reminder that he was on a multi-agent mission. An irritable scowl was furrowing dark brows at Lancelot’s bitten off snort of amusement, though. And Percival’s exasperated huff. The two of them were patiently waiting for him to complete his task before cleaning up the evidence of Kingsman’s involvement in the soon-to-be Russian Ambassador’s death. 

  
Poor Galahad though…he was left freezing his balls off atop Scotland’s National Gallery over a kilometre away. It was decidedly not one of the best missions Eggsy has ever been on. Never mind one of his most successful. But with Harry’s soothing voice constantly crooning soft praise and gentle instruction in his ear, there was _very_ little he could find fault with except the fucking cold. 

  
It had been little over a year and thirteen weeks since Harry Hart had woken up from a four month long coma in HQ’s medical wing. The fateful Tuesday afternoon where reflective white pavement bled red with blood and bits of brain, had forced the younger agent to acknowledge that his beloved Mentor was painfully mortal. A fact he was still trying to come to terms with without breaking apart everytime something dangerous afflicted the man’s day. 

  
There was no denying Kingman’s most successful Knight died that day beneath the sticky orange summer sunshine, spread hopelessly across scorching hot asphalt as he nearly ceased to completely exist on the operating table the next few hours whilst the world went shit. And after his emergency extraction from a university hospital forty-eight hours later, Harry spent the first few months of his recovery in a medically induced coma and countless more surgeries. 

  
Those days had become a living hell for the younger agent, he simply _refused_ to leave Harry’s side whenever he was not out on assignment or medical leave himself. Sometimes he didn’t even eat, sleep or _breathe_ when the ICU machines began to blare a deafening cardiac arrhythmia that brought the doctors running. Eggsy had been terrified to speak those first few days, petrified that the smallest sound of his voice would be enough to push Harry into death’s icy claws. 

  
He stubbornly kept silent vigil at the older gentleman’s side for the first two weeks until he had finally stabilized, praying and praying and praying to whichever deity was willing to listen that Harry would wake regardless of the bleak possibility outlined in his medical charts. And even though Galahad survived a bullet to the brain, there was subsequent nerve damage and enough swelling to cause permanent debility in motor functions and suspected personality alteration. Yet, those beautiful whiskey coloured orbs Eggsy had fallen in love with in so short a span of time, remained stubbornly closed for another agonizing four months. Only a jagged, angry red scar, webbed out from his left eye socket to his temple as it faded to a thin gossamer silver, indicated his progress in healing. 

  
“Breathe for me, Galahad.” Harry cut through his reverie. “Your heartrate’s spiking.” Forcing a slow exhale from between parted petal pink lips, viridian green eyes watched detachedly as a cloud of misty white vapour poured restlessly through the air before him and long black lashes furiously blinked away the film of turmoil curved across dilated black pupils. 

  
This _really_ wasn’t the time to be transversing painful memories, he scolded himself. 

  
Harry Hart was alive. That was all that mattered. _Alive_ and in his ear, his gentle _Guinevere_ in lieu of a stoic Merlin. Not that Eggsy had any problem with the Scot himself mind, he adored the man after their successful saving-the-world mission. But sometimes only Harry had the ability to calm the frantic beat of his heart or settle the unexpected violence seeking to break free from pale skin. That, and if the older man was being a deliberate little shit; he flirted with his protégé over the comms just to see him to choke on a Honeypot mission or scramble an important subterfuge. 

  
_All’s fair in love and war_ , as the saying goes. 

  
With the hand of a midnight blue Bremont steadily ticking away the last minute towards 24:00, _Galahad_ quietly waited for the thirty second countdown to the Castle’s premeditated electrical failure. Now if only Guinevere could get Percival to stop humming that cheesy action sequence in their ears. 

  
A thin layer of crystalized frost had begun to ice mesmerising patterns across cold, pressed, metal. The barrel of his rifle freezing to the touch as he flexed the pad of his forefinger on the trigger to prevent it from stiffening with cold. It was almost time—. 

  
“Percival, please.” Harry hissed commandingly, cutting off the teasing sound before it was followed up with: “Thirty-seconds, Galahad. Fire on command.” 

  
“Yes, Harry.” Eggsy repeated smugly, giving fuck-all about protocol as he smirked playfully at the exasperated huff it echoed in his ear. He was instinctively tensing his body in preparation for the rifle’s kick-back, scooting forward a few centimetres on his stomach as the muzzle of the gun trained expertly on the podium in the middle of the ballroom. It was such a shame they had installed accessible French doors right in front of his target. 

  
Sheer anticipation was already beginning to thrum through blood-hot veins, the usual adrenalin-high of living life on the edge boiling uncomfortably beneath his skin as another command forced him to “ _breathe_ , darling.” 

  
“Take your time.” The poshly accented words crooned encouragingly, a brilliant spark of white briefly obscuring his night vision scope before the lights across the way fizzled to darkness. 

  
“Fire.” On command, a salacious trail of gunpowder sparked brilliant orange with leftover discharge. An elegant helix unfurling north-north west, the vibrations of a partially silenced gunshot reverberating excitedly through the Kingsman rifle as he watched the satisfying spray of dark red liquid painting elegant wallpapered façades and shattered glass. It was stunning, the high definition colour available through Merlin’s enhanced scopes. 

  
Carefully practiced movements were disassembling the rifle less than thirty seconds later, concealing the loose parts in a leather briefcase before chaos erupted through the ballroom the moment the lights flicked back on. Polished black Oxfords were already dancing a soothing cadence down several hundred-year-old stone steps, the twenty-five-year-old struggling to contain the adrenalin shortening his breaths and flushing his cheeks as he listened intently to Guinevere guiding the other agents through their own tasks for the night. 

  
The mission was not yet complete, it seemed. Even when he himself was. 

  
Sliding smoothly into the backseat of a dark Flying Spur, lavish hand-stitched leather conformed sinfully soft to the curve of his spine as highly polished Bentley curves drew surprisingly little acknowledgement that late at night. Like this, it was almost as if he was a gala guest having left the party early; the ancient Scottish buildings rising imposing high against the wintery night sky as restless fingertips wound a long blue scarf more firmly around his neck. 

  
Even with a competent heater warming the air and Pete, his usual chauffer for missions; seamlessly guiding the purring beast down the sleet covered motorway, Eggsy was still shivering from adrenalin withdrawal. Coming down from high-octane missions was never easy, especially since he had been forced to lay very still in freezing temperatures for a long time. 

  
It took well over an hour for the background chatter on his comms to die down, the successful extraction of all agents calling in Merlin to take over the last few minutes of their debrief before he was reminded to hand in a written report by ten-thirty Monday morning. Shuffling down his seat a little more, the Kingsman spread his legs a little wider for comfort as tired green eyes fluttered shut with numb exhaustion. It had been a while since he had had a moment to just sleep—. 

  
“Eggsy?” Startled into harsh wakefulness five hours later, viridian blue-green eyes blinked gritty fatigue from dilated black pupils as he belatedly realized he had drifted off for quite a while. _Damn,_ that was embarrassing. And he had so wanted to talk to Harry before—. 

  
“Darling? Are you there?” 

  
“Hnnn. ’Arry?” He croaked feebly, forcing a pounding temple away from the icy window he had been slumped against as he straightened out the glasses having fallen askew across his nose. Swiping his fingertips beneath thick frames to rub away the dark circles gathered beneath his eyes, perfectly coifed russet gold locks feathered helplessly across the back of his headrest as he stared absently at the velvet-suede ceiling above. 

  
“Yes, darling boy.” An amused chuckle answered his noncommittal whine. “I know you’re tired. I just wanted to check in with you. Are you feeling alright?” Nodding absently at the question without realizing Harry couldn’t see the movement, he eventually mumbled a quiet affirmation before blinking owlishly at his watch until the numbers began to make sense. 

  
_Shit!_ It was already seven in the morning, a grey dawn breaking through the heavy fog that blanketed the M6 as he wondered briefly what sedative he had been fed without his knowledge. It really _wasn’t_ fair, he mourned. Roxy had had the privilege of taking the train home and was most likely already sprawled across her bed for the weekend. And Percival, fucking bastard; had built up enough of an alias over the years to take a fucking the jet to ‘functions’ like these. 

  
All the while _poor_ Eggsy was stuck in a car — okay a very, very, _very_ nice, seat-heated car with luxurious leather and a smoothly, purring engine—. 

  
“Darling?” Right, Harry. 

  
“Sorry, ‘m okay…a bit out o’ it but ‘m okay.” He returned feebly, unable to help the gentle smile touching his lips as he recognized the sleep heavy syllables weighing down his beloved’s own voice. J.B was snuffling hopelessly in the background of the feed, probably because he had to go out into the snow for his morning outing. Harry had probably just woken himself, as he was won’t to do when his younger lover was not in bed with him. 

  
“There’s about two hours left of your journey, Eggsy. Would you like to keep the visual line open?” 

  
“Yes please.” Eggsy interrupted before Harry could change his mind, wincing slightly at the unnecessary enthusiasm that slipped through his tone. He preferred being there when the older gentleman was going through his morning routine, just so that he could make sure he was not in any immediate danger. 

  
Viciously shaking himself out of several melancholic thoughts before they could take over his mind, the young Knight smiled indulgently as he listened to the rhythmic spray of the shower fogging up the _en-suite_ bathroom and watched his beloved’s elegant silhouette become framed by steamed glass windows. Shifting uncomfortably in his seat at the shameless imagery it invoked, a deepening red was dusting pale cheeks as he continued to watch Harry through the left lens of his glasses until a sharp silver razor was being run over morning stubble collected on maturely lined cheeks and the older man eventually exited the bathroom in favour of their large walk-in-closet. 

  
His movements were well practiced but still somewhat stilted with unfamiliarity in front of the large mirror, a stray brush guiding silver-threaded chocolate locks into a fluffy, slightly curled flipped-back style Harry preferred at home these days as he tugged a light blue cardigan over a formal white shirt before re-situating thick tortoiseshell frames across the bridge of his nose. 

  
“There.” He hummed quietly in satisfaction, the perfectly tailored seam of bespoke black trousers a little less noticeable now that he was sitting down on a finely stitched, handcrafted, leather wheelchair. It was a sight that instantly drew a pained breath from deep within rested lungs, the younger lover valiantly blinking back the sting of tears gathered in the corner of his eyes as he mercilessly pressed his forehead against freezing glass. 

  
"'Arry..." It was inconceivable but Eggsy felt it was somehow his fault that Harry couldn’t walk anymore, like if he had passed his final test it would have been him in the church instead. If he could take the pain of that injury upon himself, he would in a heartbeat. Harry didn’t deserve this, he was—. Viciously clenching his eyes against the guilt spreading like ice through his veins, he listened intently to the sound of Harry calmly wheeling his way into the kitchen to make morning tea and set down J.B’s breakfast. 

  
He wasn’t an invalid, Eggsy knew. _Far_ from it. The former Galahad could effortlessly incapacitate dozens of men at the drop of hat regardless of having the use of his legs or not. His skill was so encompassing that it rarely, if ever, waned. 

  
“Don’t feed J.B biscuits, Harry. He’ll get fat.” He reminded suddenly, hoping to break the increasing darkness swirling through his mind. He wanted his Harry—. 

  
“As opposed to him not being fat already, darling? Really, what have you been feeding him these days? I think you are intelligent enough to know he’s a lost cause.” Snorting in amusement at the declaration, Eggsy was just about to form his own snarky retort when he saw the furry beast hop away from its now empty bowl and resituate himself on his second master’s lap. 

  
“Lucky sod.” Harry’s bright laughter instantly warmed the pit of his stomach, his limbs relaxing a little further into his seat as he turned a haunted gaze towards the passing cars outside. 

  
“Why don’t you close your eyes for a bit more, Eggsy? I’ll be waiting for you to get home.”  
“N-no! _Please_! Please keep the line open, ‘Arry…I don’t think I can—.” 

  
“Alright, dear boy. Alright. I understand.” If anyone had the ability to understand the younger man’s obsessive attachment to Harry after Kentucky, it was the man himself. He was always so generous in indulging his protégé. 

  
“Why don’t I put on some music, then?” 

  
“Yes, Harry,” Eggsy breathed quietly, tipping his head back against the seat regardless of the painful lump forming in his throat. Some days, like today, reality got just a little too much for him. He hated to be reminded of the beautiful, strong, proud, man that had been brought down to the broken existence he was now. 

  
Not that Eggsy would _ever_ love him any less. But Harry himself sometimes had an inclination to break, the bone deep pain and desperation reflected in whiskey-brown orb so all-consuming that the younger man instinctively hid all the weapons and alcohol in the house. The _one_ time he had found the older agent bent over his desk with a dual-barrel pistol clutched between trembling fingertips against his temple and an empty bottle of whiskey on the table beside him, had been _more_ than enough. He would _never_ allow it to happen again. 

  
“Love you, Harry.” He whispered thickly, almost afraid to shatter the soothing stillness that settled between them as he listened to the older man’s briefly in-drawn breath of delight before his running feed showed long petting fingers stilling on the plump pug stretched across his lap. 

  
“I love you too, Eggsy.” Harry replied warmly. “I’ll be waiting for you in my office, please come back safely.” 

  
“Always, Harry.” Galahad promised. He would never leave Harry if he could help it. Eggsy would fight tooth and nail to come back, just like Harry had faithfully come back to him. 

* * * * 

Briefly glancing down at the elegant Bremont encircling his wrist, Harry Hart quietly set aside his work tablet the moment heard familiar footsteps echoing down the hall. It been over a week since he had last seen his darling boy in person, the assassination of the Russian Ambassador having taken four days longer than their previous estimate because of an unstable political climate. Not that it mattered in the end, he reminded himself. The mission had been completed successfully eight hours ago, _eight_ hours he could have spent beside his darling boy in bed. 

  
Next time, he vowed to check every single detail of a mission before handing over another dossier. Some of the new techs in the Merlin department had screwed up with this one, far too wet behind the ears for the former agent’s liking. It was one of the main reasons he personally took over handling Galahad in the field. He didn’t trust the priceless boy’s life in anyone’s hands but his own. 

  
As the newly instated Guinevere when no unanimous vote could be established for a new Arthur, Harry’s thirty-plus years of experience and high mission success rate had instantly taken higher precedence over his fellow Knights. He now held three-quarters of the agency’s deciding power in his hand, Merlin making up the last quarter through sheer will alone. 

  
Or, at least, that is what it said on paper. 

  
Harry often outmanoeuvred the Scotsman to get his own way, like manipulating the dour handler into allowing him to guide Galahad out on field missions. With his own intimate relationship with Lancelot on the line at the time, it had been easy enough to shoot down his friend’s usually sound objections. After all, having come back from the dead just to see Eggsy curled up faithfully in the chair next to his hospital bed and waiting patiently for him to wake, was incentive enough for Kingsman protocol to go fuck itself. 

  
There was no one for Guinevere to answer to anymore, he practically _was_ Kingsman. And he delighted in making others know it intimately when they got too arrogant or forward with his dear boy. There was practically a whole department in Berlin or dead drop missions in Siberia dedicated to those transgressors if he managed to control himself enough not to have them outright executed. 

  
Which these days…became more difficult every day. 

  
Breathing a quiet sigh to settle the fine tremor running through his hands, restless fingertips were fussing over the open collar of his dress shirt as he smoothed out the rumples in a light blue cardigan and discreetly turned a state-of-the-art wheelchair to face the closed office door. Losing partial mobility had been one of the harshest blows of this injury, Harry thought. He had never taken well to being dependant on others or limited in his day to day activities. But the months he spent in therapy, both psychological and physical to hopefully regain the use of his legs and recapture his lost sense of self; had quickly taught him otherwise. 

  
Had it not been for the blessing of a burgeoning love and Eggsy’s constant presence by his side, he was sure he would really have taken his own life the day it was officially declared he would never be able to walk or work as a field agent again. He could still remember that moment in sharp clarity, the acrid taste of metal and whiskey upon his tongue as a broken boy knelt between his useless legs and sobbed his love into his Mentor’s navy bespoke suit. 

  
He had said nothing, merely running trembling fingertips through perfectly coiffed burnished locks as he watched the firelight ignite filaments of gold and burnished copper through downy soft strands. The depthless sorrow and heartbroken despair concealed in crying green eyes was more than enough for him to lose his sense of helplessness. He had tenderly bent forward and buried his nose where his hands had been previously, scenting the sweet reflection of _his_ pomade and cologne on youthful skin as he settled a firm hand on the base of the younger agent’s neck. 

  
That day had broken Eggsy, leaving the sweet boy in pieces for Harry to reshape to his liking — just like his darling had adapted and transformed so beautifully into something new during Kingsman training. Having the gentle boy so possessively attached to him was a heady feeling, giving him a new sense of purpose he had long thought lost that day in the downstairs loo. But no, the darling child was still so _very_ in love with him, willing to do anything and everything just to stay by his side regardless of the life and future he would be giving up. 

  
And what saint would have the ability to refuse a pure-hearted Galahad? Harry Hart was many things, but a selfless sacrifice was not one of them. He refused to let go of what he was willing to claim. At fifty-five he was somewhat entitled to the hedonistic desires flowing so potently through his blood, mind. He had spent over thirty years in Kingsman service, it was about time he took the opportunity to indulge in one of his deepest desires. 

  
Harry Hart would completely possess the young Galahad curled so willingly and sorrowfully around his waist, make him _his_ in every sense of the word so that no one else would ever have the opportunity to separate or unbalance their love. Eggsy Unwin had so sweetly and wholly become Harry’s that day,opening himself so beautifully—. 

  
“’Arry?” And there it was, that wholehearted devotion racing like wildfire through his blood as he focused dark whiskey brown eyes upon the vision leaning tiredly against the newly opened mahogany double doors. Even when he been started violently from the depths of his thoughts, he merely raised an inviting palm to beckon the younger agent to his side. 

  
Eggsy practically ran the last ten meters separating them, long legs (elegantly contoured in charcoal worsted trousers) drawing the fifty-five-year-old’s eyes to the rhythmic sway of a heavy thigh-length winter coat and dark blue scarf tucked neatly beneath smoothed down lapels. Concealed under finely pressed cashmere, he knew; rested the sophisticated cut of a tapered charcoal suit jacket with double vents and a navy and maroon striped Kingsman tie. 

  
God the darling was simply beautiful, a heady dream wrapped in debonair pride and assassin smooth fluidity. He was effortlessly graceful, most likely from the inborn balance and natural movement cultivated in his gymnastics days, as polished black oxfords eventually came to a halt before his wheelchair and a hundred-and-seventy-nine centimetre frame eased itself down to his knees in front of him. 

  
With the unbalance of height now between them, the older gentleman glanced lovingly at perfectly coiffed russet blonde locks and bright viridian green eyes behind thick black rimmed glasses. Harry was finding it very difficult to hold himself back in that moment, merely contemplating the time and place of this reunion for a few seconds before he leant down slightly to brush his lips against an icy cold forehead. It seemed Eggsy had stood outside in the cold for a little too long, not an idea he was too happy with. 

  
Carefully tipping the younger agent’s head back with a forefinger and thumb as he exploited the affectionate touch with a contented sigh, restless fingers soon came up to grasp the arm rests of his wheelchair as a gold signet ring and possessive wedding ring glinted in the peripheries of his vision. Petal pink lips were leaning up ever so slightly in search of a proper kiss, viridian green eyes heavy-lidded with sheer need at their close proximity as he squirmed delightfully on his knees the longer Harry merely drank in the breathtaking sight of him. 

  
“Beautiful.” He breathed reverently, tracing the pad of his thumb across a plush bottom lip before chuckling delightedly at the frustrated whine it produced. 

  
“There we go, sweetheart. Open for me.” And just like that, Eggsy obeyed. Curling forward in delight as a scorching tongue dipped playfully into the depths of his mouth for a taste and Harry fisted possessive fingers through the short, downy, locks at the base of his skull. The older man was leisurely mapping out the inside of a blissful wet heat, his thumb tenderly slipping down a vulnerable throat to rest a gun calloused pad across the prominent beauty spot seared there. The touch prompted a delighted shiver from deep within the russet blonde’s chest, a fine tremor shooting through a formerly cold body as he moaned deeply at the generous tongue twinning so heatedly with his. 

  
It was absolutely perfect. Hot. Sweet. Sinfully decadent. An exploration of sensation that shuddered poignantly between two answering bodies. The scrape of a blunt fingernail across youthfully smooth skin, tinted pale cheeks a dusky pink as their saliva heavy dance tasted of early morning earl grey and gin and vermouth… It seemed Galahad had indulged in a martini on the drive home. Harry couldn’t contain his own bitten off noise of appreciation at the taste, absolutely adoring the nostalgic sensation it left behind on his darling boy’s tongue. 

  
Teasing little tart that he was, Eggsy _knew_ it too. Which was why he could feel a small smirk of satisfaction tickling their kiss before he reluctantly parted at the lack of oxygen. His head was spinning with heavy desire, the soft artificial lighting in the office glinting off of the slick string of saliva still connecting their tongues as he scraped his nails through pomade parted locks. 

  
Absolutely perfect. 

  
“Hello, Harry.” Humming an amused smile at the cheeky wink thrown in his direction, Guinevere leaned back contentedly the moment an exhausted temple came to rest against his thigh. Sensation below his waist ever since he woke with partial paralysis, was a little strange and only tolerable if Eggsy was in close proximity. Shivering slightly at the teasing fingertips that dipped between his thighs to caress the fitted seam of black trousers, long fingers absently resituated tortoiseshell glasses over the bridge of his nose the moment it sounded with an irate chirp. 

  
“Hnn,” He answered the call a little shakily, glancing down at a playful hand curling deliberately around the thickening bulge in his trousers. It was—. 

  
“ _Christ_ , Harry! It’s not even ten in the morning,” A distinctive Scottish brogue hissed in surprise, no doubt reeling at the eyeful he got when Harry refused to look away from the head splayed sleepily across his lap. He couldn’t help the chuckle that bubbled in his throat, his darling Galahad seemed barely awake enough to care for their audience but _ever_ so eager to please. 

  
“What is it, Merlin? Aren’t you supposed to be home with Lancelot? I only came in today because you wanted the paperwork done before Monday and Eggsy’s mission was completed.” 

  
“Right, that.” There was a brief pause where the handler didn’t seem to know exactly what to say. “It seems rather pointless now, yer boy is ever so good at leading yeh astray.” Laughing delightedly at the claim, Eggsy turned his head slightly to the side to throw a wink at the man on the other end of the call before he straightened his coat and rose to his feet. Grasping the offending tech from Harry’s nose with light-fingered finesse regardless of the simultaneous cries of indignation it produced, the older of the two watched surprised as Eggsy curled a possessive hand over his shoulder and brought the glasses to his eyelevel. 

  
_“Fuck_ that, Merlin. ‘M goin’ home and ‘Arry’s coming with me. It’s Saturday and it’s been a shit week. Y’ know where to find us if the world is ending.” Completely cutting off any further communication, playful green eyes slipped the glasses into his coat pocket before completely disconnecting the comm lines. If the tech-wizard was in need of their services, he could call their home in the Mews. It was _far_ too early in the weekend to be dealing with bureaucratic bullshit. 

  
“Let’s go home, Harry.” Smiling fondly at the dark promise smouldering behind hooded green irises, Harry breathed a theatrical sigh before smirking playfully in return. 

  
“Very well, darling. You could definitely use some rest.” 

* * * * 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much reading, I really appreciate it. If I could hope to ask for a small review in return for my hard work, I would really appreciate it. 
> 
> Yours Always  
> Chocolate Carnival


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